


Saturday Nights (or the time Penny tried to help Quentin get laid)

by passivelyexisting



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, M/M, background Alice/Margo, background Penny/Julia, unhealthy relationship with alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passivelyexisting/pseuds/passivelyexisting
Summary: In one of the alternate timelines, the Beast's arrival is delayed and Quentin spends more time trying to be "normal" at Brakebills. A party leads to some revelations about his feelings toward Eliot.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	Saturday Nights (or the time Penny tried to help Quentin get laid)

**Author's Note:**

> this is very self indulgent and has no plot except q is sad and uh,, lonely

Every Saturday night, the Physical Kids threw a party.

Now, they had kickbacks practically every night of the week—some of which Quentin would unironically call _ragers_ , based off his own limited experience with parties in undergrad—but he had quickly learned that none of the events he had attended in the past held a candle to what Margo and Eliot cooked up on the weekends. Julia had laughed when he told her about these weekly occurrences and teased him that his days of avoiding parties had come to an undeniable close now that he was living upstairs in the infamous Cottage. He had tried to laugh himself, ignoring the fact that if anything, it had only made him more intent on avoiding any aforementioned large gathering. Especially after the one time he had ventured downstairs only to discover Alice was not there—in hindsight, unsurprising—and after a number of consolatory drinks provided by Eliot, he had left Quentin alone to go suck some random second-year’s dick in the kitchen. It was not that he was unfamiliar with his friends ditching him in favor of hooking up with someone—that had been most parties with James and Julia. So realistically, Eliot should be no different and yet witnessing that one-sided encounter had sent him to bed with a sinking feeling in his stomach that reappeared every time he considered going downstairs for another party.

Sleep, it should go without saying, was a futile effort on these nights unless he cast a silencing ward around his room but for some reason, he never wanted to. Call it intuition, that in the case of Eliot or Margo—fuck, even Alice—getting tangled up in some trouble, he would want to be there to help. If it were bad enough, he was sure someone would knock on his door and let him know. Which is why on this night, as he lay in bed with his face buried in a Fillory book, puffing on a dab pen, the loud series of knocks on his door had him instantly jumping into a state of anxiety. “One sec—” he started to say before the door burst open and he recoiled, hitting his hip against the sharp metal corner of the bed. The pain was only exacerbated by the sight of a familiar man who was currently falling into his room, being shoved backwards by a short brunette that Quentin instantly recognized.

“Julia?” he asked in disbelief. “ _Penny_?”

From the way Penny was currently kissing Quentin’s lifelong best friend, he almost expected them both to ignore him completely but a moment later, Julia broke away, her face sparkling with a radiant smile. “Oh my god, Q, I’m so sorry,” she said, batting Penny’s hands away as she attempted to assume an apologetic smile in place of her wild grin. “We didn’t know this was your room.”

“ _He_ definitely knew,” Quentin said, casting a glare at Penny’s back.

Penny shrugged at Julia, still not turning to look at him.

“We’ll—um—we’ll go,” she said, biting her lip to hide her laughter. Quentin knew it had nothing to do with him, he knew it was that kind of love-drunk feeling you get when you are making out with someone really special but it still hit him like a brick in the face as a manifestation of one of his biggest fears; Julia was outgrowing him as a friend. Even after they had both discovered magic together. It fit with the trend. He was beginning to realize that magic was little better than a band aid—a temporary cover but a useless, long-term fix.

“Or.” Penny finally glanced at Quentin. His pupils were blown out and his shirt was unbuttoned even further than the usual half-shirtless look he had going on. Lower than that, Quentin dared not look, though he was certain his flowing trousers were not usually so tight-fitting, especially in one particular area. “The fanboy could actually go downstairs and talk to someone for a change. Hey, nerd, I’ll even let you use my room, yeah?” He tossed a key at him which Quentin fumbled to catch. “Go wild.”

“Why don’t _you_ use your room?” he retorted, crossing his arms.

Penny looked to be about done with talking—his eyes were flicking between Julia’s eyes and lips even as he spoke. “Dude, too far,” he answered and then kissed Julia in a way that made Quentin jealous. That was not unexpected, it was the same way he had felt every time Jules had brought a new boyfriend to lunch in their primary education or moved in with a new boy in their undergrad. But this time, it felt different, so much so even he noticed—no longer was he imagining himself in Penny’s place, kissing her lips, but rather him and someone else, locked in the same embrace, tongue slipping into the other’s mouth as he moaned…Fuck. Quentin quickly averted his eyes and grabbed his bag—who knew when he would be allowed back in?—and hurried toward the door.

“You owe me, Jules,” he called back as he stepped outside, not able to wait for a response. On one hand, he could not believe this was happening—the whole kicked-out-of-his-own-room thing _and_ the Penny-Jules thing—and on the other hand, he could absolutely believe it. She had been hinting to him that she had something going on with a boy for a while now and from the description she had given him, of course it was fucking Penny. At least this way, if he ever hurt her, Quentin would have a valid excuse to go full battle-magic—although he’d have to hit the library first—on his womanizing ass.

The hallway was clear but one or two passed-out girls were on the stairs and he had to take special care to side-step them. It was only midnight, so he logically assumed things would get much worse before they got better.

Downstairs was a mess of people, as always. Music was blaring from above, an entirely immersive experience that club speakers could only dream of replicating. Magic made it feel like every song was right in your ears, just like you were listening to headphones. He recognized a surprising amount of people from his freshmen class but there were just as many people he had never seen before, or if he had, never spoken to. Not that he had talked to half of the freshmen for longer than an introduction, but still.

Todd was around the corner of the stairs, leaning against the wall with several girls clustered around him—good for him, he thought. Despite Eliot’s vendetta against him, he thought the guy was decent enough. Could be worse—could be like James. “Hey,” he said, approaching the underclassman. “You know where Eliot and Margo are?”

He looked like he was doing physics in his head trying to understand why Quentin would be talking to him. “Me? Oh, yeah—I saw Eliot by the bar and uh—Margo was making out with some chick—woman,” he corrected hastily, glancing around self-consciously at his audience.

“Good to know.” He could have guessed Eliot would be at the bar—and if there was a small spark of hope in his chest to hear that El had not yet slinked off with his latest conquest, well, no one could prove it. But regardless, as Quentin entered the main room, he was certain that if he did spot either of his older friends, they would be irrevocably locked in a passionate embrace of their own.

The couches in the main room were occupied by more people than they were designed for and to bypass this impediment, enthusiastic revelers had taken to sprawling on the laps of those originally occupying the sofa. And sure enough, a man with dark curls and deep eyebags, mostly hidden with concealer, was standing next to the at-home bar, swirling a metal cup in one hand and grasping the sleeve of a boy with his other. As Quentin watched, he smiled, entirely sexy but dangerous, too, like there was only a small bit of himself in it, and it was the bit you did not want to fuck with. It made Quentin sad to see but it also turned him on slightly. Wait, what? A wave of embarrassed heat ran through him—what was wrong with him?

In a desperate bid to avoid the ramifications of that thought, Quentin slunk to the side of the room, where the less attractive, more wasted people congregated. He let someone hand him a cup and without a second thought, drained it in a single gulp. It made his throat burn and his eyes water, but it was worth it to feel the spike of confidence. There was a second of concern when he realized that the whiskey he had downed earlier in the safety of his room had essentially wore off. That, or he was just more wasted than he realized. Either scenario spelled trouble for him, to be honest. He should really just stick to drinking alone. No one wanted him down here, anyway.

Acutely aware of Eliot flirting somewhere in the background, he searched for someone he recognized with a vigor unbefitting alcohol and upon realizing this, took another shot. If he just found _one_ familiar face, he could latch onto a conversation…It was then that he spotted Alice, as if by the grace of some god of debauchery. She was ahead by the bookshelves, naturally—a woman after his own heart—chatting with some girl as she laughed and let the girl pluck her glasses off her face to try them on herself. Alice was blushing pink by the time the girl returned her glasses and said something to her that made her smile and avert her eyes toward the ground. Good for Alice, he thought with a rush of warmth that may have been entirely the product of alcohol. If he had been in possession of his normal social intelligence—even impaired as it was—he would have perhaps understood exactly the nature of the conversation and steered clear but as it was, he made a beeline directly to them.

“Alice!” he said, coming up beside the two women. “What’s up?”

“Now, what do we have here?” a familiar voice drawled. “Q himself gracing us with his presence—apparently anything is possible.”

He was already too wasted to understand. “Huh?” he asked, turning to scrutinize the other woman, which is exactly when he realized that he was speaking to Margo Hanson herself.

She laughed, an exaggerated, not entirely friendly sound, while Alice refused to meet his eyes when he looked at her for support. “You mind, Q? The ladies are talking. Go find, El, yeah?” she said, sounding simultaneously bored and flirtatious. Flirtatiously bored; it was a talent.

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered, knowing well enough when he was being dismissed, even with the alcohol. The rejection hit him all the harder for his current state and he felt like the dreaded turn-around was approaching sooner than normal: that time of night when the alcohol became a convenient key to unlocking the torrent of Bad Thoughts that usually lurked deeper than the surface-level Bad.

He wandered to the window, where a table was conveniently placed for a spectacular view of the Labyrinth that made up the Brakebills grounds. As he sipped on a new drink—surely the original owner wouldn’t mind—he opened his phone and considered texting Julia before he reprimanded himself, walking through the exact reasons why that was a bad idea. So instead, he opened an online-strategy game he had downloaded on his phone for nights he could not sleep. It was definitely harder when his vision was consistently glitching out but hey, that made it all the more challenging—even on his usual ‘nightmare’ level, he still easily kept a winning streak a mile long.

What felt like an eternity later but was probably only half an hour, going by the time on his phone, he felt someone hovering behind him.

“Q?” a familiar voice said.

The current hazy state of the world made it difficult for him to be startled and despite the unexpected interruption, he turned around unconcerned. “Eliot?”

Eliot’s height and commanding presence blocked out the mess of people behind him, taking the full-center spotlight in his vision. He thought about how pretty his eyes were when they were not looking at him with mild disapproval—even when they were, honestly. And as Eliot raised the hand currently unoccupied by a glass to reach towards Quentin, he remembered that there had been a boy earlier. Yet the Eliot before him bore no hickeys, no puffy lips, no unbuttoned shirt, and most confusing of all, he was _here_ , talking to Quentin. “Are you okay?” he asked before he could stop the words. He almost expected Eliot to drop his hand but the hand remained, beckoning him up from his refuge.

“Come outside with me,” he said simply.

“Uh—yeah, okay.” He tucked his phone in his pocket, and unable to tell whether Eliot meant for him to grab his hand or not, he tentatively grasped it with his own. There was no time for him to worry over whether that was the right decision because then he was being expertly led through the dancing bodies out the front door and around the side, to the patio that Quentin was already very familiar with, having spent several months in the Physical Kids’ cottage.

He sprawled across one of the stiff chairs, dangling his legs over the armrest which earned a look of amusement from Eliot. There was no subsequent rise in his level of self-consciousness so he smiled back easily. “What’s up, El?”

Eliot procured a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it with a snap of his fingers, teasingly blowing the smoke at him. In mid-air it took on the shape of a cresting wave, passing over Quentin with a rush of cool air like a sea breeze. There was a note of something sweet and heady mixed in and he realized belatedly it was not a cigarette after all. “Showoff,” he said, taking the joint as Eliot shrugged.

“Did something happen with Julia?” he asked.

Quentin almost choked on his inhale. “Uh, no. Why?”

“I could feel your brooding from across the room,” he said dryly. “You give off very potent sad boy energy.”

Now he was beginning to feel self-conscious, his face heating up against the sharp wind tangling in their clothes. “Her and Penny are hooking up in my room,” he admitted, knowing he might regret disclosing this information about Jules’ love life in the morning. But the way they had been all over each other at his door, he was sure they had not been exactly subtle downstairs either.

“And they didn’t invite you? How inconsiderate,” Eliot drawled, not meeting his eyes. He was focused on twirling the half-empty glass between his fingers.

That pulled an involuntary bark of laughter from him. “I’d rather give up magic tomorrow than ever be involved in a threeway with Penny. But that said, good for Julia, I guess. She’s seemed happier lately so.”

“Why so sulky then, Coldwater?”

He sighed, throwing his head back to look at the sky. Where he had once only seen a scattered mess of stars, his brain now categorized them into constellations without even thinking about it. It was always clear here, not like smoggy New York. “To be honest? I’m not sure magic is cutting it for me anymore. And I’m not sure if _I’m_ cutting it for magic.”

“Was that supposed to make sense?” His tone was lighter now than earlier but still teasing. It made something warm throb in his chest.

“I’m bad at this, El,” he said, alarmed by the sudden desperation in his voice. “I’ve been good at everything else but the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and suddenly I can’t do it. It’s just like—” he paused. “Like, trying another medication. And it works for a while but then it just stops and it’s worse than before.”

Eliot nodded thoughtfully. “You stopped your meds, right?”

“Right. Barebacking life.”

He laughed at that and once more, Quentin felt that warmth in his chest. It was different than the alcohol, he thought curiously. Or maybe not. He could not tell.

“You could start them again,” he suggested. “Magic isn’t a—ironically enough— _magical_ cure-all. No one expects your clinical depression to just go away because we’re living at a fucked-up Hogwarts.”

“Fogg said differently,” he said, remembering their conversation on that first day. “But he gets things wrong, huh?”

“He really does,” Eliot agreed solemnly.

An easy silence settled over them as they finished the joint and Eliot sipped at his martini with all the elegance that Quentin could never dream of possessing. “Hey, what happened to your boy?” he asked suddenly.

Eliot wrinkled his nose over the rim of his glass. “The usual—drunk and curious straight boy who freaks out when the flirting starts to get physical. He was boring, anyway.”

“His loss,” he said automatically. “You’re literally so hot, El, I don’t get it.” He barely even thought about his words until the ensuing silence prompted him to glance back at Eliot.

“You think I’m hot, huh?” His eyes were dark and heavy with something indiscernible to Quentin. He blamed his impaired vision and the dim lighting.

He snorted in response. “Don’t give me that, you _know_ you’re hot.”

“Yes, but it gives my ego a healthy boost when straight boys think so, too.”

That took him a few seconds to parse out the meaning but once he did, he frowned. “You think I’m straight?”

Eliot cocked an eyebrow in challenge. “You ever been with a guy?”

Something about that rubbed him the wrong way. “Maybe,” he said, feeling like being difficult. But Eliot’s stare broke him a second later. “Well, no—not really. But like, I _would_.”

“Big talk, little Q,” his best friend—Julia, aside—said to him with a look that told Quentin he thought he was bluffing.

“Fuck you, Eliot,” he responded with a frown that lacked any real bite. “Let’s go back in. It’s your damn party, aren’t you breaking some sacred host etiquette?”

He watched Quentin very seriously as he attempted to stand and nearly lost his balance before grasping the umbrella pole to his left. “How drunk are you?” he asked, sounding partly amused and partly concerned. “You barely even drank in there.”

“What, were you watching me or something?” he grumbled. “I might have pregamed.”

Eliot shook his head, standing with much less difficulty than Quentin even though he had to be nearly as crossed. “Come on, let’s put you to bed.”

“No, can’t, remember?” he said suddenly as they slipped back into the warmth of the cottage. “Penny’s fucking my childhood friend in my bed.”

Eliot laughed. “Wow, Drunk Q really has no filter.” When he saw the glare Quentin gave him, he patted his arm in consolation. “Relax, it’s cute.”

As they made their way toward one of the sofas, he forgot to search the room for Alice. There were still people dancing, drinking, and laughing but the throng had reduced and a number of seats had opened up from earlier. Quentin collapsed on one of the sofas, patting the spot beside him when Eliot continued to stand.

“Did Julia really put you out in the cold tonight?” he asked after Quentin had checked his phone for messages—there were not any, of course, and he was sure why he did it.

He had entirely forgotten about Penny’s offer. “Nope,” he said. “Penny gave me his room key. Oh man, I totally have to fuck with him.” He turned to Eliot. “Any ideas?”

“Well, it’s obvious,” he said with a tense smile. “You have to fuck someone in his bed.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, feeling mild dread at the thought. “Yeah, that’d be true justice, I guess.” The overwhelming urge to lie down struck him as his vision sharply tilted to the side. “Can I like, lie down?” he asked without thinking.

“Knock yourself out, Q,” Eliot said, visibly entertained.

“Cool,” he said and proceeded to slip his head into Eliot’s lap and prop his feet atop the armrest. It was a perfect fit for his height—the sofa just long enough for him to fully extend his legs.

He unintentionally closed his eyes as he relaxed into the feeling of Eliot beneath him. It was in that moment, as he felt the spinning behind his eyes lessen and the reassuring warmth of someone familiar, that he realized he was definitely more drunk than he had thought. He forced himself to open his eyes, unconsciously exhaling one long breath. Above him, Eliot was looking at his phone, casually holding it with one hand while the other was against Quentin’s shoulder, closer than he’d realized to brushing against his hair.

For a few minutes, he drifted in a peaceful silence, the throbbing noise in the background fading to a tolerable hum, making him feel like the two of them were separated from everyone else. All the worries that had been bouncing around in his head since he woke up this morning had practically disappeared. He was having trouble holding on to any thought for longer than a second but the floating haze he drifted in was pleasurable enough. Distantly, he wondered if getting fucked up all the time was part of the reason that making any progress in magic always felt out of reach, something just above what he could comprehend.

Soon enough, the old dizziness returned with its previous strength and in an effort to distract himself from the inevitable headache, he raised a hand and casually pushed Eliot’s phone to the side.

“Yes, Q?” he said, dropping his phone on the cushions behind them and blinking down at Quentin.

It took him a second to organize his thoughts. He had been thinking about how soft Eliot's hair looked and how the shadow of the lamplight framed his sharp cheekbones and sent a shiver through him when Eliot wet his lips.

“Be honest,” he said. “How many hair products do you use?”

He snorted, the intense stare dissipating as his eyes flicked toward the stairs. “More than you, Mr. 2-in-1.”

"Haha," Quentin said. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Nope. You reached your one question-max limit."

"El," he said meaningfully, fixing his best pleading look on Eliot. "Please?"

"Fuck,” Eliot said, shaking his head as he stared at Quentin with a look of something like regret. "You’re trouble, know that?"

"Wait, what now?" he asked, a stupid grin tugging at his lips. "How drunk are _you_?" 

"Somehow, not nearly as much as I need to be," was the answer that momentarily threw him for a loop.

"What?" he repeated, beginning to feel foolish. Eliot simply waved a hand in dismissal and began to thread his nearby fingers through Quentin's stringy, unwashed hair. He felt a distant spike of insecurity but because it felt beyond fantastic and was making something like butterflies twist in his stomach, he bit his lip and allowed it to happen. He still felt bad for Eliot, though.

Maybe it was an attempt to make it up to him when he raised a firm hand to slip behind Eliot's neck before slowly pulling himself up and pressing his own chapped lips against Eliot's soft ones. Although he was drunk and certainly sloppy, after only a few seconds, he knew it was one of the best kisses he'd ever shared. That was a distantly concerning thought but he pushed it to the side, wanting nothing more in that moment than to lose himself. Eliot's lips were wet and warm, his tongue was gentle, and his stubble sent pleasurable chills running down Quentin's spine. He could feel Eliot smile against him before he pulled back slightly.

"You're drunk," he said. Their faces were less than an inch apart. Quentin's hand had moved up to softly grasp his curls.

"Yeah," he breathed, lips parting in an irresistible smile of his own. "Can we go to your room?"

"Not Penny's?" Eliot said teasingly, in what he thought might be an effort to avoid giving an answer.

"Do _not_ say that name right now," he groaned. "And fuck no. Please, El?"

Eliot surveyed him for a minute, keeping his eyes fixed firmly above his lips. Finally he nodded, beginning to stand up but pausing for Quentin to pull his head up. "Come on, Q," he said simply and offered both hands to support him as he stood. Together they made their way up the stairs, each of them banging a shoulder against the wall when the other stumbled but otherwise unharmed when they reached Eliot's room at the end of the hallway. When they had passed Quentin's room, it had been mercifully silent, but the sound of laughter had carried out from behind Alice's door. By the time Eliot had opened the door for him and Quentin had pulled off his hoodie, he had forgotten all about it.

He plopped down on the bed, waiting for Eliot to come to him. It became awkward after a moment, as Eliot unbuttoned both his vest and long-sleeve, neatly folding them atop a wooden chair. Then he went to the sink and filled a glass of water, which he handed to Quentin. Only when he took it and began to drink did Eliot sink into the mattress beside him.

"So, d'you wanna make out?" he asked at roughly the same moment Eliot spoke.

"I can sleep downstairs."

He felt a sharp jolt as something inside him deflated, withering back to a usual despair. "Oh," he said. "Did, um—did I do something wrong?"

Eliot's gaze softened and he swore there was still a dark look in his eyes, something that might even be akin to lust. It was difficult for him to tell. "No, Q, sweetheart. But you're drunk. And so am I, probably. It's going to feel like I took advantage of you and I definitely would not be able to live with that in the morning."

"Oh," he said again but less disappointed this time. What he was saying made sense, in a distant, abstract kind of way. "Okay. Can we cuddle then?"

Eliot chuckled, a very different sound from his mocking laughter. "Yeah, let's do that. You're cute, Coldwater."

He blushed as he laid back on the pillows, expecting to situate himself better once Eliot joined him. Instead, Eliot pulled him close to his side and wrapped one arm around his waist while the other curved over his head on the pillow, reaching down to massage his scalp. With a rush of what could only be described as pure dopamine, he relaxed into the embrace and threw his leg over Eliot's thighs, pressing himself almost completely against him.

"You smell good," he murmured against his arm.

"Like weed?" Eliot asked wryly.

"Mm, yeah," he said with a laugh. "But also, just like you, y’know?"

"Whatever you say, Q." His voice was undeniably affectionate, even as blurred and disconnected Quentin's reality currently felt. Before he fell asleep, he realized he had not brushed his teeth and considered getting up to save his morning self from the aftertaste of binge drinking but gave up when he registered the peaceful rise and fall of Eliot’s chest. Within minutes, he felt himself slip into a deep, dreamless sleep of his own.

When he woke up, there was a heavy weight pressed against his back. The wall across from him was a deep blue, bare of any hangings. By the bright light cast across the floor, it was past morning, solidly into the afternoon. Looking down, he noticed a man’s arm was thrown across his waist. Had he taken Eliot’s advice and hooked up with someone last night…in Penny’s room? God, he hoped not, he thought as a spike of panic ran through him. That had been a truly terrible idea. He was hesitant to wake his bed partner but as the man stirred slightly and stretched his arm out, Quentin’s eyes were drawn to the rings he wore. Thin, silver, elegant—one set with what could only be a bonafide ruby.

“Eliot?” he said, his voice raspy from sleep. He turned around, causing Eliot to groan and bring a hand to shield his eyes.

“Morning, Q.”

He watched him uncertainly as Eliot delayed any potential eye contact. Maybe it would have been more polite if he had tried to slip out undetected. But he did not want to pretend they had not woken up next together after a night of…doing what exactly? He glanced down and saw that they were both still clothed from the waist down.

“Did we, uh, sleep together, El?” He was hesitant as he spoke but not ashamed. It did not have to be weird or anything—friends slept with each other all the time. Right? God, if he had fucked this up, too, on top of everything else…

“Well, not in the biblical sense, at least,” Eliot said, his tone holding a faint bite.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” Thinking hard, he saw flashes of them stumbling up the stairs, crawling in to bed together, and oh, wow—he had definitely tried to get in Eliot’s pants last night. And wait, he _had_ actually kissed him. He blushed as he recalled how insistent he had been. “Oh my god, El, I’m so sorry. I probably crossed so many lines last night…”

He had finally removed his hand from his grimace in order to fumble in the top drawer of the adjacent dresser, bringing it back with a cigarette. “I don’t always smoke first thing, okay?” he told him as he lit it with his fingers and immediately took a deep inhale. “But this is not my typical morning either, believe it or not.”

Eliot said nothing else, apparently ignoring or forgetting Quentin’s apology and its implications. He frowned and continued to watch him until Eliot glanced his way after a long exhale, eyebrows lifted in exasperation.

“Q, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We didn’t even do anything, okay? You can save your gay panic for some undetermined, future date. Or never. That’s always a good option, too.”

For a moment, he felt so confused he was almost convinced that he was still cross-faded and that is why this conversation was becoming increasingly difficult to understand. He blinked and the mild, building headache behind his temples flared in a reminder that no, this was the morning-after and he was utterly sober. “Is that what you think this is?” he said tersely, pulling away from Eliot. A second later he scoffed. “We kissed. You seemed to like it—I know I did. Is that not anything? I get that you don’t do relationships or whatever but—” he paused in frustration to search for the right words. “You don’t have to be a dick,” he finished lamely.

Eliot nodded thoughtfully, offering the cigarette as he did. Quentin took a reluctant hit—he’d managed to cut back since being at Brakebills. A possible result of being Alice’s lab partner for the term and knowing she hated the smell of smoke. He swallowed around the cough bubbling in his throat and handed it back to Eliot.

“You liked it?” he asked quietly, turning to look at Quentin. The was a depth of sincerity in his eyes that he was not used to seeing and it made him feel dizzy.

“I mean, yeah. You’re h—” he paused, blushing. “Um, attractive. And one of my best friends. How could I not like it?” He was surprised by how blunt he was being but it was the truth and he had never really hidden it, anyway. True, most of his time here up until a few weeks ago had been spent pining after Alice but Quentin had always been prone to a particularly frustrating phenomenon called ‘crushing on multiple people.’ He had been half-in love with Julia practically his entire life, even throughout his other serious relationships. It was pretty consistent of him to develop feelings for the first close friend he made in this new world. Still, he had only thought of Eliot like that in an abstract way, certain that nothing would, or should, ever come of it.

But now, looking at Eliot slouched beneath him as the soft light of the sun bathed his face in yellow light, he kind of felt less alone than he had during his entire time at Brakebills. The urge to curl up beside him once more and tangle their limbs together like passionate teenagers was suddenly front and center, tugging irresistibly at Quentin. Friends with benefits was a thing, right? That could be a thing for them. But he didn’t want their relationship to change, he would never forgive himself if he ruined yet another good relationship in his life once they got too close to him, saw how truly bad he could get. 

“Hey,” Eliot said abruptly. Quentin snapped out of his daze and noticed he had put the cigarette out. “Come here.”

He felt his stomach lurch, not unlike the way he had felt the time when his parents had put him on a rollercoaster with a twenty story drop. It was replaced a moment later by a tremor of something pleasant flooding through him. As he leaned down tentatively, Eliot sat up to close the gap between them, wasting no time in showing Quentin precisely how good he could kiss while sober. He surrendered control instantly, feeling a giddy, weightless feeling spread to his limbs while a familiar warmth built in his lower stomach. It felt slow, sweet, and lazy, like he was wading through syrup while high on something incredibly strong.

When Eliot slipped a gentle tongue into his mouth, he fully sank back into the bed, feeling Eliot make a sound of amusement before following him. The moment that Eliot grasped a loose handful of his hair was the moment a slight murmur of appreciation—which could be construed as a moan—escaped him. The grip in his hair became more urgent, then, as Eliot smiled softly against his lips.

Eventually, they broke apart after the sound of heavy footsteps and loud voices in the hall became impossible to ignore. It practically disappeared as soon as they stopped and Eliot rolled his eyes.

“So,” Quentin said, now pinned down almost completely by the taller man. “Are you convinced?”

“Mmm, of?” came the low reply as Eliot kissed down his jaw.

“That I’m not straight.”

Eliot laughed and his hot breath against his neck sent a shiver down his spine. “Yeah. You’re just gay for me though, right?”

“Obviously,” he said, just as teasing.

He returned to pressing light kisses against his neck, which progressed to something undeniably obscene within mere seconds. “You just wanted to be one of my boys so bad, is that it?”

“Y-yeah. Just wanted to be good for you,” he answered without hesitation, feeling ridiculously euphoric for someone who had a notorious history of spending hungover days depressed and alone in bed, too unhappy with himself to allow anyone—by which he mostly meant Julia—inside.

“Fuck, baby,” Eliot murmured, giving him an especially insistent nip on the neck. “That’s so hot. You’re so hot. Can’t just say shit like that.”

“You’re one to talk,” he said breathlessly.

“Oh?” Eliot did not even pause in his current task.

“Baby?”

“Mmm, got it,” he said and then trailed his lips up to Quentin’s ear, whispering a very explicit request to him in an entirely casual way, yet somehow his voice, quiet but rough, sent thrills through him so sharp it felt like a pleasurable fire consuming him.

After that, they were tangled in bed for a while longer, both in sleep and in other more vigorous activities. It was only when their sole glass of water ran dry that Eliot finally emerged from the room and recruited Margo to help him carry up one of their water pitchers, two plates, and a mug of coffee.

By the end of the day, Quentin was feeling the usual encroaching sense of dread that preceded a new week of magical learning and tests. It was buried beneath the excitement of still being in Eliot’s bed and having his best friend stay with him throughout a day that so badly wanted to fuck with his head. It was unbelievable that he would jeopardize his friendship with Eliot, who he literally had to live with in the same house, but he got the sense that even if they had to take a step back, they would work things out. Fighting with Julia had always been the same; they were there for each other, even in the times when their friendship had been practically non-existent.

Q was just going to have to try his best. And hey, Eliot had offered to tutor him in the classes he was struggling with, which was pretty much all of them. It felt good to know that someone besides Julia cared whether or not he went home.


End file.
